Lost Sock
by Reyka Sivao
Summary: "And that, sir, is how I lost my lost right shoe and my left sock."


Author's Note: Story written for the Secret Coconut, a fic exchange promoted by the community Saint Seiya Super Fics Journal.  
Set just before Brotherhood. Maybe. None of the main plot has happened yet, anyway.

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang sat stiffly at attention, doing his best to ignore the irregular _drip-drip_ of his sopping wet hair and the awkward squelching of the chair under him every time he shifted a millimeter.

Across the desk, the Fuhrer steepled his fingers and stared at him. Roy half-wondered how his one eye managed to have twice the staring power of anyone else's two.

"Let me get this straight," said Bradley. "You managed to catch the criminal more or less single-handedly, but in doing so, you lost your right shoe, your left sock, and the vast majority of your eyebrows."

Roy looked straight ahead. "That is correct, sir."

Bradley sat back. "Well. I must say I'm curious. Your report, Colonel."

Roy swallowed a sigh a defeat. "Yes, sir."

He paused a moment to try and gather his thoughts, which seemed a more difficult process than usual, possibly owing to the muddy water dripping down the back of his neck.

"Well, it started when I heard the report this morning…"

* * *

The rain pounded heavily on the roof as Roy Mustang drummed his fingers in time with it.

There were a fair number of things he should really be doing right now, but it was one of those days where the thought of sitting at a desk filling out reports on ammunition shipments was absolutely unbearable.

"You should probably be writing on that," said Riza Hawkeye, dryly. Her humor was about the only thing that was dry right about then.

Roy stared down at the form that his fingers were dancing across, and vaguely thought about putting in the mental effort to come up a response the Riza's argument.

"Eh," he said.

"'Eh'? That's the best you can come up with?"

"Eh."

"You, sir," she said, walking to the desk and slamming down a new pile of papers, "need to get to work."

Mustang stared at them, still tapping his fingers, and with a sigh, Hawkeye picked up a pen and handed it to him. He stared at the pen, and then started tapping that on the papers instead.

Hawkeye folded her arms behind her back, standing stiffly at attention with the clear implication that she wasn't moving until he got to work.

"…it's too quiet," said Mustang, turning the pen over in his hand and clicking it. "Something needs to happen, preferably before someone cracks in here."

"Mm-hm. Forms." She nodded slightly. "They need filling."

Click-click.

They really did need doing. Preferably last week. But still, he found it impossible to—

"Um…sir?" broke in a new voice—communications officer Kain Fuery, looking, as always, slightly smaller than his actual height. "I think you might…you might actually get your wish." He ducked his head slightly.

Roy turned sharply toward him, paperwork-cum-musical-tapping-board instantly forgotten.

"What is it?"

"Report just coming in—rogue officer—correction, former officer—with anti-military, anarchist leanings…" he frowned, listening to the radio. "Short version, he's an enemy of the state, probably psychotic, and he's in the city. Already attacked several officers."

Roy stuck the pen in his pocket and pushed out of his seat. "Alchemist?"

"You're not thinking about going out?" asked Riza, aghast.

"No, sir," said Kain. "Non-alchemist former military."

"All right," said Roy, pulling on his gloves. "Let's do this."

"Colonel! It's _raining!"_

"So it is. Perhaps it would be useful to have a gun with me." He walked out of the room.

Hawkeye took an instant to rub the bridge of her nose before following him out.

"…he's going out, isn't he?" said Kain softly.

"Yep," said Jean Havoc, reordering a stack of papers.

* * *

"Let me get this straight," said the Fuhrer, raising one hand mildly. "You decided to go after the criminal, alone, despite the fact that the weather rendered your main attack essentially useless?"

"He had already been reported as a non-alchemist. I believed there was no way he could pose a threat to me."

"But, nonetheless…"

Roy swallowed. "Yes, sir."

Bradley sat back again, apparently satisfied by the admission.

"I see. Pray, continue."

* * *

Roy's uniform jacket did surprisingly little to lessen the attack of the driving wind, and he momentarily considered going back and getting a raincoat.

"Sir!"

Well, there went that idea. No sense wasting a dramatic exit.

"Sir, I'm going with you."

"That's not necessary."

She let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like "Like hell it isn't"—which it couldn't have been, since she would never say something like that. On duty.

"You should have backup."

Roy shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Damn, it was cold out here. He glanced sidelong at Hawkeye, who seemed not to have noticed the change in temperature, and pursed his lips.

He turned and walked briskly toward the nearest visible military guard, with the intention of asking if he'd seen anything. He probably should have thought to ask Kain for more details.

Unfortunately for the officer he'd set his sights on, that proved unnecessary.

There was a sound like a very large popcorn kernel popping—a sound that had Mustang crouching in defensive mode even before the officer gave a strangled cry and fell to one knee with one arm clutched across his chest.

Several more popcorn kernels exploded near Roy's face, and he didn't have to look back to see Riza's hawk eyes blazing with the cold light of a sniper's aim.

Knowing she was covering him, Roy sprang forward towards the fallen officer.

"You all right, Sergeant?" he asked, sparing half a glance at the officer's insignia.

The sergeant coughed. "Alive, sir," he answered.

"Good. Let's keep it that way." He peeled off his uniform jacket and laid it on top of the sergeant.

Roy turned his attention back to Hawkeye as she came up. "He went that way," she said, answering his unasked question with a nod in the right direction.

"Good. I'll follow him. You stay with the sergeant."

"Sir, I'm no medic—!"

"That's an order, Lieutenant."

Was it just him, or was the fire in her eyes rather more dangerous when she was mad at him than when she was in sniper mode?

"At least take this." She unclipped one holster from her belt and threw it at him…with rather more force than was strictly necessary, as it happened.

He caught the gun and clipped it to his own belt. "Let them know where I've gone."

"Yes, sir," she said, and it sounded like two separate sentences.

* * *

"So…you followed him, on your own, without your main attack, after he'd already injured an officer, and you would have gone _unarmed_ but for the insistence of your subordinate?"

"Not…completely unarmed, sir."

King Bradley raised his eyebrows. "Armed with what, then? Your shoes?"

"I'm getting to that, sir…"

Bradley raised his hands. "Very well, very well. Please, continue."

* * *

The streets were more desolate than they should have been, even given the atrocious weather, so Mustang assumed that military lockdown had already been implemented.

Behind him, he heard the shouts on his comrades spreading out, in standard search patterns, but he kept his focus in front, where he could hear the pounding footsteps of his quarry as a staccato counterpoint to the steady pounding of the rain.

The shadowed form of his prey ducked down an alleyway, and Mustang nearly tripped in his effort to change directions to follow him. He could already feel the thrill of victory searing his veins—there was no way out of there! He'd caught him!

The thrill carried him forward, propelling him down the alley, toward the dark doorway at the end of it, where the dark shadow was disappearing.

Roy launched himself through the doorway, with a cry of triumph—

—that quickly turned to a cry of surprise as the floor disappeared from under him.

For an instant that was easily long enough for several more-worthy lifetimes to flash in front of him, Roy teetered on the edge.

Then, with a horrifying inevitability, his forward foot slipped just a little too far over the edge of the threshold, and he fell into the blackness.

* * *

"You followed him into a dark cellar at the end of dark alleyway, and didn't consider that you might run into something?"

"It would be more accurate to say that I didn't consider running into _nothing_."

"True, most doors have floors behind them. But still, was it really advisable to run in like that? It's not like you can see in the dark."

"What would you have had me do? Torch the block?"

"I was thinking more of a flashlight."

"…it was in my jacket."

"You didn't even think about it, did you?"

"Do you want me to finish my report or not?"

"Please."

* * *

For a few terrifying, directionless, frantic seconds, Roy Mustang fell into the dark.

Perhaps his frantic flailing did something, or perhaps it was sheer luck, but something caught him and arrested his fall.

Or rather, something caught the back of his pants, bringing him up short in an entirely uncomfortable manner.

"Oof," he grunted, suddenly wishing he was still falling, and wiggled around trying to free himself.

He even succeeded, in a manner of speaking. His frantic wiggling did manage to pull himself further away from whatever had caught his pants…but in the process, he managed to turn himself completely upside-down as his pants gave a terrifying _riiiiip_ all the way down the back.

For a moment, all Mustang could do was flail about helplessly. Then, purely by luck (though he would later decide to claim design), one of his flailing arms caught on the pullchain for the basement's one light.

The bare bulb illuminated his predicament, but didn't really help it any. He was still caught by the seat of his pants a good seven meters above the cellar floor.

He wasted only a moment wondering who in all seven hells dug a cellar that deep, and another being thankful he'd been caught at all, before twisting around to see if he could uncatch himself.

Unfortunately, even before he could get a proper look, there was an awful ripping sound, and he dropped another few centimeters. Mustang froze.

More slowly, he tried again, to the same result—and this time, the ripping went on a few moments after he froze. Mustang eyed the ground antagonistically.

Reaching carefully into his pocket, he pulled out the pen from earlier, careful of any further ripping, and brought it slowly up the back of his hand.

Working as quickly as he dared, he drew the first alchemical circle that came to mind on the back of his left glove.

He was only just done when there was one last RIIIIP and the ground came rushing rudely up at him.

Roy's left hand shot out of its own accord, and his alchemist's power went rushing into the hastily-drawn circle, which was designed to convert matter into sand.

Of course, there were still two circles on his glove, and in that state, Roy was in no condition to distinguish between them.

This _shouldn't_ have been a problem—fire needed a spark, after all—except that when his left hand jumped forward, it struck his right.

Those would be his gloved hands, of course.

The gloves made of unique, sparks-with-friction ignition cloth, of course.

The end result of the conflux of circumstances, of course, was that Roy's alchemy not only created a soft landing spot, but also a minor fireball right beneath his face.

* * *

"Ah, now that does explain the eyebrows," said Fuhrer Bradley.

"Yes, sir," said Mustang, because what else would one say to that? He was reasonably certain regulations didn't exactly cover that one.

Bradley made a note on his paperwork, and sat back again, raising his own eyebrows slightly.

Knowing an order when he saw one, Mustang resumed his report.

* * *

Flailing madly, Roy somehow managed to avoid the worst of the fireball, and even somehow managed to flip over on his back.

He hit the ground hard, leaving him gasping for breath and seeing stars.

No, wait…not stars. Burning embers from his charred eyebrows.

It took him three tries before his frantic arms made it to his face, but he eventually managed to put out his eyebrows, getting rather a lot of sand in his face in the process.

Spluttering, he brushed the sand back out of his face and sat up, sand cascading off him in sheets.

He looked around the room, and the more he looked, the odder _it_ looked.

It was very oddly shaped—any normal cellar of that floor size would only about half that deep—and when he looked closer, he realized that this one had been, too.

The lower walls showed the telltale marks of alchemy, and when he finally found the stairway—he'd have had to hang a hard right to get to either the stairway or the door that presumably led into the upper part of the building—he saw that the stairway only ran about halfway down the wall, and from there, a ladder ran to the floor.

Apparently, there had once been a safety rail in place to prevent people from plummeting to the floor as he had, but some great force had blasted the rail outward. It was this that had caught him. When he squinted, he could just see a piece of bright blue material fluttering in the slight breeze from the doorway.

Mustang stared at that bit of blue for a few seconds, resisting the urge to rub his temples.

By then, the room had stopped its cartwheeling enough to let him stand, which he did, amid yet more showers of sand.

As he did so, his pants fell off.

Mustang's lips tightened to a thin line and he eyed the rebellious pile of fabric.

He really needed to follow the fugitive—no one knew to look here!—but the seat of his pants was currently dangling approximately two stories above the top of his head.

Sighing, Mustang sat down and pulled off his left shoe, followed by the sock. Putting his boot back on, he drew a standard 'merging' circle on the sock, put it on his ripped pants, and hoped he knew enough about the proper construction of pants to make this stupid idea work. It was more complicated than it looked.

Roy activated the circle, and the two pieces of fabric crackled with light and melted into each other like soft clay, leaving a jagged edge of white and blue.

He blinked at his handiwork. Close enough. Too bad he couldn't change the color—the white fabric of the sock was unmistakable against the dark blue of his uniform. Fortunately, the long waist-cape should hide that. Mostly.

At least he had pants now.

As he belted his pants back on, he turned his attention to the ladder he'd noticed before—only to realize that it hadn't been serviceable for at least a decade. He stared at it.

Where had the other man gone? Had he come down here at all? Had he taken the door at the top of the stairs? Roy was pretty sure, now he thought about it, that he'd heard the man's footsteps on the stairs…but if that was the case, where was he now?

Frowning even more, Mustang walked toward the ladder, not remotely sure what he was looking for. It was definitely as old as it had looked, and he was fairly sure it wouldn't hold him unless he repaired it. He put his hand on it to test it, but it shifted and nearly fell over when he did.

Roy frowned even deeper. Something was wrong with this picture.

He put his hand flat against the cold wall, trying to figure out what…wait. Something drew his attention, and he turned sharply from the ladder to the wall behind it, and the small marks that covered it.

He'd already noted the distinctive pattern of transmuted matter on the walls, but it was much stronger over here, and had a definite shape…and unless he missed his guess, it was quite a bit more recent.

Slowly, Mustang smiled. "So, you're an alchemist after all…or else you're not alone," he said to the empty cellar. He glanced up and down the wall. Yes, the sharper marks extended stepwise all the way up to the hanging stairs—a fact that was handily disguised by the ladder that had undoubtedly been put there for that purpose.

He traced the alchemical marks down the wall, and found what he was looking for—a larger, rectangular shape, easily big enough to walk through if it weren't there.

Mustang smiled. "I've got you now," he muttered, and pulled out the pen from earlier. If only he had his jacket with him—he had chalk in _that_ pocket. But the pen would serve.

Mustang drew a basic circle on the wall by the ladder, and put his hand on it.

After a moment's reflection, he pulled his hand back, pulled off the glove, and put it back.

The circle activated in a brilliant flare of blue-white light, and Roy blinked through the newly-created doorway.

* * *

Bradley made a note in his file. "Is that when you went for backup?"

Mustang blinked startled at the interruption. "Sir?"

"Backup, Colonel. I assume you went for it at some point."

"I…had it covered, sir."

Bradley raised an eyebrow. "You went in alone?"

Mustang shifted, still dripping.

"…yes, sir."

"Why? You weren't exactly in hot pursuit anymore, and you could have come back, gotten backup, and gotten back before they realized you were onto them."

"Well, sir, I…"

"You…had your dignity to regain?"

Mustang gritted his teeth. "Something like that, sir."

"Indeed. What did you do then?"

* * *

The passage behind the hidden doorway was a great deal darker than Roy had anticipated, somehow. Where he'd _thought _light was going to come from, he didn't bother to ask.

Slowly, he crept along the passageway, trying to see with his ears and nose and hands, since his eyes were doing precisely no good at all.

It was an entirely disturbing feeling. Shadows and silence and dead space crowded in on him as he tried to see past the darkness in his eyes, and it was all he could do not to snap his fingers just to see if his eyes still worked.

But since that would be a profoundly stupid idea, he took off his other glove and stuck it resolutely in his pocket, rubbing at the scorched remains of his eyebrows as he did.

It was darker than anything he'd ever…wait, was that light up ahead?

Not sure whether to be relieved or start doubting his sanity, Mustang sped up his steps as much as he dared.

No, whatever his sanity, there was definitely light up ahead.

Mustang's feet sped up again, and then he nearly tripped of them slowing down again when the first notes of the voices hit his ears.

"—they're _looking for us_ up there!"

Mustang's foot was in the air and his breath was halfway out of his lungs, but he was frozen solid.

"Of course! That's the last place they'd look!"

"…no. They're…that's where they _are_ looking. _Right now._"

"Which is exactly why they'll never find us there!"

"_Out there_ is a very big place!"

"Precisely."

"What even..._what?_"

"I am the _leader_, and we're _going outside!_"

"The _leader?_ The leader of _what?_ I'm the only help you've got!"

"I'll be the leader of everything! All I have to do is make everyone realize the legitimacy of my claims!"

"…you claim that your _apartment_ is your _kingdom._"

"No, I am the rightful heir of the Sage of the East! All of Amestris is mine by right!"

Mustang nearly fell over. His hand hit the wall pretty hard as he steadied himself, but fortunately any sound was drowned out as Mr. Delusions-of-Grandeur continued ranting.

"My apartment is simply the only space conceded to me by the pretender government currently in place. Eventually, they will acknowledge my claim or fall, and I will rise to my rightful place as the monarch of the Alchemical Kingdom."

"…you're not even an alchemist."

"A minor detail."

There was a long pause, and then the second voice—not Mr. Delusions-of-Grandeur, the other one, Mr. Alchemist-the-Skeptical—slowly continued.

"You know, maybe you're right about not staying in here."

"See? Everyone will acknowledge my rightness in the end."

"…let's get out of here."

There was a noise that told Mustang that the alchemist of the pair had just done something—created a ladder, maybe?—and Mustang crept toward the doorway.

Footsteps. Climbing. Definitely a ladder of some sort.

When the footsteps changed tone, Mustang peeked through the doorway. Clear.

Working quickly, Roy pulled off his right shoe, followed by Hawkeye's handgun. Still wishing he had his chalk, he drew a circle in pen on the military-issue boot, placed the gun on top, and concentrated.

The blue flames of willpower swirled and sparked around the setup, and it twisted and changed under his hands.

* * *

"Ah, so now we get to the shoe."

"Yes, sir."

"Couldn't you have just arrested them right then? You had a gun, even if they'd been unfamiliar with your abilities. Surely they would have surrendered."

"I didn't know how heavily armed they were, and I wasn't sure Mr. De…the fugitive would have surrendered, given his delusions of grandeur. I wanted to wait until there was backup available."

The fuhrer raised his eyebrows, the one under his eyepatch shifting it slightly. "That's a first."

Colonel Mustang shifted again, squelching.

"May I continue?"

"Certainly."

* * *

Mustang lifted his new creation and rose from the floor, facing the exit.

At once he saw his mistake.

"…dammit."

He was holding a large, awkward shape, was half-barefoot, and was facing a ladder that extended at least seven meters towards the ground above.

With a grimace, Roy placed his burden on his shoulder and started climbing. The rungs were rather uncomfortable on his sock-clad right foot, and the boot-gun combo was bulky and awkward, but he had to hurry if he wanted to catch them. He was lucky that the alchemist hadn't destroyed the ladder as it was.

With a grunt, he pulled himself out onto the ground—the exit was apparently disguised as a manhole—and promptly stepped in a puddle.

He groaned inwardly as the water squelched into his sock, but looked around for backup.

He found it almost immediately in the form of a young officer with lieutenant's bars on his shoulder.

The lieutenant was staring at him with undisguised confusion.

Suddenly aware of his bedraggled state, Colonel Mustang drew himself up and called up his most military-sounding voice.

"Lieutenant," he said sharply. "Have you seen anyone leave this area?"

The lieutenant hesitated, and Mustang belatedly realized that his own Lieutenant Colonel's stripes were on the uniform jacket he'd left with Hawkeye and the wounded sergeant.

"Lieutenant Colonel Mustang," he identified with a sharp movement towards himself.

The lieutenant's eyes widened slightly, and Mustang sincerely hoped it was in recognition as he even more belatedly realized that his ID was _also_ in his jacket. He probably should have thought that through better. The lieutenant really wasn't just supposed to take his word for it…

"Yes sir, two civilians just headed that way." The lieutenant pointed.

Mustang stared at him, forgetting about military identification protocol.

"You let them go?"

"…yes, sir. I warned them that we were on lockdown because of a fugitive…"

Mustang resisted the urge to rub his temples, partly because the burns still stung.

"Lieutenant, those _were_ the fugitives."

The man's eyes widened. "Sir, neither of them looked anything like the description!"

Mustang blinked. He'd never actually seen them.

"I heard them talking," he said. "If you saw them, get to a radio and give new description, and send backup after me." He shouldered the modified boot and turned in the direction the officer had indicated.

* * *

"He really just took your word for it? Without even your rank insignia? Clearly we'll need to review proper identification protocols…"

Colonel Mustang cursed inwardly. He hadn't really intended to give away the young lieutenant like that. He'd talk to him on his own.

"He recognized me, sir, at least after I reminded him of my name. And we never would have caught the fugitive if he hadn't."

"Nonetheless. And you, of course, should have been _able_ to identify yourself properly, colonel."

He knew that.

"Yes, sir."

* * *

_Squelch. Squelch._

_Squelch-schlop-squelch._

He hated rain.

He really, really hated rain. And puddles. And socks.

And fugitives whose delusions of grandeur included the idea that they could simply walk out in the middle of a mansearch and get away with it.

Especially if they freaking_ got away with it._

Also, rain.

_Squelch. Sqee-elch. Squelch._

Voices.

He stopped again.

The voices were soft and rapid—arguing, perhaps, but too vague for him to make out.

Mustang ducked into the relative shelter of a nearby doorway. Showtime.

He pulled out the drier of his two gloves—the right, fortunately, since the left still had the sand-circle on it, and he really couldn't afford another messup—and slipped it on.

He pulled up the gun-boot combo, which under his hands had twisted into a smooth, black, rather enormous gun. And thanks to Hawkeye's foresight, it could even shoot bullets. He wouldn't have been nearly skilled enough to turn a shoe into a _working_ gun, and a handgun on its own wouldn't be enough, but this…this might work. Maybe. It just needed one more finishing touch.

Mustang snapped his fingers.

* * *

Fuhrer Bradley's eyebrows seemed stuck in permanent surprise mode.

"You fused your shoe to a gun and then set the whole thing on fire?"

"Not exactly—" Mustang paused and considered. "Well…yes, sir."

"Ah."

* * *

The two fugitives had just entered a slightly wider street when Mustang caught up to them. Perfect.

"—we're never going to get out of this alive," Mr. Skeptical was saying matter-of-factly.

"Of course we are," said Mr. Grandeur.

"That depends," said Colonel Mustang.

The two fugitives spun around to face a bedraggled, furious-looking Roy Mustang holding an even more furious-looking gun with a flaming muzzle.

"It depends," continued Mustang, "on whether you'd prefer to face Fuhrer Bradley's military, or _me, personally._" He glared at them. His foot was squelching again. "I'd recommend the military."

Mr. Skeptical threw up his hands. "I had no idea what he was going for. He just hired me to fix his basement."

Mustang gestured vaguely with the business end of the gun.

"Go sit down and shut up."

"Sure thing." Mr. Skeptical moved slowly off to a nearby doorway and sat down to watch.

Mustang turned 98 percent of his attention back to Mr. Grandeur. Come to think of it, he probably should have gotten the fugitive's actual name before heading out.

"And you?"

Mr. Grandeur crossed his arms. "You want me to obey _you_? You should be obeying _me! _Asthe heir of the Sage of the East, _I_ am your rightful leader!"

Right. Delusional. He could work with that.

Mustang braced the gun more firmly against his shoulder, as though it would have a kickback to match its size. In fact, of course, it would have only the kick of a handgun.

"This is a coup," he said.

Mr. Delusions-of-Grandeur blinked.

"A coup," repeated Mustang. "I'm…"—his brain cycled furiously—"I'm part of the Coalition for the Instatement of the Heirs of the Sage of the West."

Mr. Grandeur's eyes widened. "I _knew_ it!" he cried. "I knew it was a conspiracy! That false sage of Xing has been angling for control of Amestris for four hundred years!"

The fugitive continued ranting, and Mustang just stood there, dripping.

He hated rain.

"—do you really think you can defeat me with a coup of _one?_"

Wait. Was that a question?

"The coalition is more powerful than you think." Did that answer the question? And where the heck was his backup?

"I am the rightful ruler of all of Amestris!"

Mustang snorted. "Do you really think they will all stand with you? Do you have any idea how many of them would choose my side over yours?"

Mr. Grandeur took a step forward. "I don't know." He was smiling. "But does it really matter? Right now, it's only you and me, _traitor._" With lightning-fast hands, he pulled out a gun of his own and aimed it at Mustang's head.

Mustang froze.

The hands holding the gun on him were perfectly steady, one stabilizing the other—a perfect military-basics stance. Roy had no doubt that the other man could kill him with one shot at this distance.

Of course, Mustang was _also _still holding a perfectly-serviceable gun, but he was rather more dubious about his own aiming skills. He was no Hawkeye, and he was nowhere near sure he could get off a killing shot before his opponent killed him—and he also wasn't particularly keen on killing a man who was almost certainly not in his right mind. But on the other hand, whoever shot first had the best chance of surviving…

But on yet another hand, or perhaps his soggy right foot, time was on his side.

Mr. Grandeur smiled wider. "You should have shot when you had the chance. Now you die, traitor."

Mustang laughed.

The other man's finger twitched on the trigger, and he frowned.

"What's so funny?"

Drama. This man had a flair for the dramatic, and wouldn't kill him until the right moment. He was utterly full of his own sense of how this fantasy was supposed to play out—if Mustang could play along with that, he might be able to keep delaying that dramaticly fatal moment with some dramatic revelations of his own. As soon as he could think of some.

"You think you know so much," taunted Mustang.

The man gripped the gun harder. "What don't I know?" he demanded.

Dammit. Good question.

"The coalition has learned…certain facts about the Sage of the West," said Mustang, trying desperately to think of some.

Was it just him, or did the gun falter a few millimeters?

"What sorts of facts?" If the gun had faltered, it was back in place now. "And what does that have to do with anything? That Xing pretender has nothing to do with me!"

_Dammit._

"Oh, I think he has more to do with you than you realize."

Backup. Backup backup backup.

_Hawkeye. Come on._

"Oh? I must admit you've piqued my curiosity. You may tell me what you learned, if you wish to extend your life for a few more seconds."

Dammit some more. What did he even know about the sages? The semi-mythical figures were said to have brought Alchemy and its sister-science Alkahestry to Amestris and Xing, respectively…

"Well?"

The trigger made a tiny click that it meant it was one twitch of a finger from firing.

…at exactly the same time in history.

"The sages were brothers."

Roy held his breath, hoping his lie would distract his opponent for long enough.

The man frowned. Close enough. Roy dove forward.

"They were brothers…heirs of…" The desert. They came from the desert. "…Xerxes, both of them."

"Of course they came from Xerxes," scoffed the man, and Mustang nearly cursed. Stupid slip.

"…but brothers?"

"Yes," said Mustang. In a burst of inspiration, he threw himself further into the bluff. "Brothers…and the Sage of the West was the _older_ brother. He—and his heirs—are the rightful inheritors of the legacy of Xerxes…which includes _both _kingdoms claimed by the brothers."

That made _no_ sense.

Dammit. Backup. Now.

Mr. Delusions-of-Grandeur's eyes were on fire. Not literally.

"You _lie,_" he hissed.

Wait. Was he actually _buying_ this?

"You _lie!_ The Sage of the East was the older brother!"

Mustang blinked. Twenty seconds ago, he'd been denying they were brothers at all. He was certainly quick to absorb new elements into his fantasy. This strategy might not have been his best.

Mr. Grandeur tightened his lips and furrowed his brow. "…but I suppose that doesn't really matter, does it? The Sage of the East defeated his brother, and I shall do the same to you." He smiled, and Mustang was fairly certain he was a dead man standing.

Forgoing the shot he knew he didn't have time for, Mustang dove forward, landing full on in a muddy puddle just as the bullet shot over the back of his head.

Wait. Hold up.

Over the _back _of his head?

"Colonel!"

Mustang grinned into the mud.

"Lieutenant!" he tried, and got muddy water in his mouth in the process. Grimacing, he pulled himself up and aimed his now-extinguished weapon at the would-be fugitive, but it proved unnecessary.

Mr. Delusions-of-Grandeur was staring at his hands, and Roy could hardly blame him—he stared too.

The gun he'd been holding was still in his hands, but it wasn't precisely what one could call a _gun_ anymore. More like _twisted piece of metal._

The muzzle of the gun was ripped and torn open in a twisted mockery of a flower, but the man himself seemed unharmed.

After taking another beat to be sure he wasn't a threat, Mustang twisted around to look behind him.

Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye stood there, still aiming the pistol at the delusional man's weapon. She was breathing heavily and her uniform showed the signs of speed, but her hands were perfectly still and her eyes cold and unblinking.

Mustang took a deep breath.

"Good to see you, Lieutenant."

"Lieutenant Hawkeye reporting as backup, _sir._"

She didn't even spare him half a look.

"Much appreciated."

There was a sound of running feet, and the male lieutenant Mustang had spoken to came running up, followed by a half-dozen or so other soldiers. _Finally_.

Mustang rose to his feet, and as the adrenaline surge faded, he suddenly realized that he was both soaking wet and utterly freezing.

It took the soldiers a few beats too long to assess the situation. Were they _all_ rookies?

"Lieutenant," said Mustang, speaking to the new man, whose name he didn't know. "Take these men into custody."

"Yes, sir," he said, and there were suddenly a number of additional guns pointed at the fugitive.

Hawkeye relaxed marginally and pulled her gun up, but didn't holster it.

"Um, sir?"

Mustang really did need to learn his name.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"…where's the other man?"

Roy spun, but sure enough, the doorway where Mr. Skeptical had sat was empty.

He cursed inside his head, but retained what was left of his dignity out loud. "He must have gotten away in the firefight." Did one bullet make a firefight? "He's unlikely to be a threat, but keep searching for him."

Ok, he was going to start turning blue now. He glanced around the assembled soldiers. The lieutenant was the highest-ranked one there. "For the moment, you're in charge here, Lieutenant…?"

"Coleman, sir."

"Lieutenant Coleman. You're in charge here for the moment. Get this man into custody—and for the record, he's delusional. Make it medical custody."

"Yes, sir."

Mustang turned and shouldered his soggy weapon. It was going to be a long walk back, wasn't it?

"Lieutenant Hawkeye, you're with me."

"Yes, sir."

She fell into step beside him, finally holstering her gun as they rounded a corner.

"Colonel?"

"Yes?"

"What did you do to my gun?"

* * *

"And that, sir, is how I lost my lost right shoe and my left sock."

Bradley looked at him for a long moment, and then sat back and closed the file he'd been writing in.

"I see."

A bead of water threaded its way from Mustang's soaking wet hairline, over the edge of his scorched eyebrows, and down to the tip of his nose.

King Bradley continued staring at him.

The drop gathered and finally fell.

Bradley looked at him.

Mustang couldn't take it anymore.

"Sir? Was there anything else you wanted me to add to my report?"

He sincerely hoped the answer would be "no, feel free to go and take a shower".

"Just one more thing, colonel."

Mustang bit back a sigh.

"Sir?"

"Why did you bluff? What did you think it would buy you? Time for your backup to get there so that _they_ could shoot him instead? You couldn't possibly have known that they would be able to shoot the gun out of his hands."

At that, Mustang actually smiled. "I'd say the Lieutenant more than justified my confidence."

The Fuhrer's eyebrows bounced again. "Ah, yes, Lieutenant Hawkeye. Who, if I recall correctly, you ordered to stay behind."

Mustang shrugged. "That order was only meant to be in effect until more appropriate help arrived."

"And you expected her to know that."

"Of course, sir."

Bradley shook his head. "Perhaps I should add 'clarity of communication' in addition to 'proper identification protocols'."

"That's not necessary, sir."

Bradley shook his head again. "Of course not."

Mustang opened his mouth, either to protest, or else to ask if he could _please_ go shower now, protocol be damned—

"Very well, lieutenant colonel." Bradley put his hand on the desk decisively and rose. "I believe you've been dripping on my rug long enough. You're dismissed."

Mustang was on his feet, and the chair was rocking precariously behind him.

"Yes, sir."

He saluted and turned to go.

"Oh, and colonel?"

Mustang stopped, but didn't look back. "Yes, sir?"

"You might want to requisition a new uniform."

Had the burn on his forehead expanded to include his whole face when he wasn't looking?

With careful dignity, Colonel Mustang replied, "I'll do that, sir," and squelched off into the hallway.


End file.
